


Brief Exchanges

by Miracule



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Almost-friendship, Angst, Gen, General Awkwardness, M/M, Maybe a little crushing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 14:36:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5378717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just as the title says.  Little telling moments between Endeavour Morse and Peter Jakes as they figure each other out.  Only slash if you want it to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jakes

**Author's Note:**

> Just something to hold me over until season 3. First is Jakes' POV, second is Morse's. Both take place sometime during season 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, forgive my Americanness. Jakes' voice is a bit of a bitch to get right.

Jakes stole a weary glance at the clock on the wall. His head was so fuzzy that it took him a moment to make sense of the hands. Half ten. He would’ve guessed one.

Morse shuffled some papers; made a quiet, disgusted noise at the back of his throat. Jakes arched an eyebrow at him, hoping to catch his gaze. Morse’s lamp was offensively bright, and Jakes could just about see the sweat gathering at his brow. But if Morse noticed, he didn’t seem to care. He frowned at his papers and mouthed something unintelligible.

Enough’s enough. “Christ, Morse, piss off already.”  

Morse jumped a little. He looked startled, as if he had forgotten that somebody else was in the room. “Sorry?” he said. He had this tone to his voice—a testy, tired edge—that suggested he had almost snapped.

Jakes made a show of rolling his eyes and digging into his pocket for a smoke. “It’s late,” he muttered, “and you look _peaky_.”

“You’re still here,” said Morse, curling his lip.

Jakes shrugged. “I _have_ to be here. Paperwork. Thursday told you to go home three hours ago.” He leaned back in his chair—it creaked loudly as he did so; cheap fucking stuff—and took a long drag from his cigarette. He peered at the clock again. Ten forty.

“Well, you could get it done faster if you didn’t...” Morse trailed off and shrugged.  

Jakes scoffed. “All right, all right. Fancy a drink, then?” he asked, more to fill the silence than anything. “I’m finishing up.”

Morse looked incredulous. “You’re asking _me_ for a drink?”

Jakes hadn’t thought of it that way. He hadn’t thought at all, really. “Yes, I ‘spose I am,” he said slowly. He was beginning to regret the question already. _Morse’ll probably say no, anyways._

The ticking of the old clock was the loudest noise in the room. “No, thank you,” said Morse, after a beat. He cleared his throat and returned to his work.

Well, that was the answer Jakes had expected. Still, he felt peculiarly jilted. It was only a pint but he didn’t relish the thought of showing up on his own. Morse could’ve said yes to one drink; it was the decent thing to do. Anybody else would’ve said yes.

Jakes looked sourly at the paperwork sitting unfinished in front of him. Then he looked at Morse, who was starting to mutter again. _Inconsiderate—that’s what it is._  

“Right, well, I’m off.”  Jakes made as much noise as possible as he collected his things. “Don’t forget the lights,” he added, even though he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Morse had never forgotten to turn a light off in his life.  

“Goodnight, Sergeant.”

Morse didn’t look up, but his voice was quiet—neither pleasant nor unpleasant.  Jakes felt a twinge of guilt.  He thought that he should bring up the pub again. _As an olive branch_. Thursday would love to see them getting along, wouldn’t he? _Are you sure you don’t want a pint, Morse, mate?_

“Night,” Jakes managed to grind out. Then he hesitated for a moment before grabbing his jacket and striding quickly from the room.


	2. Morse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately after Fugue.

“Oi. Morse!”

Morse started as Jakes’ voice—it was always so sharp!—sounded from across the street.

His surprise must have been evident because the sergeant’s usual mask of disdain was curiously absent. Jakes raised a pale hand—as per usual, there was a cigarette between his fingers—and gestured for Morse to come over.  

Morse wasn’t particularly keen. He didn’t like the way Jakes was leaning his entire body against the door of the Jag as if he hadn’t a care in the world. How could the man be so blasé? Morse was spent. His head felt ready to split open and with every little jostle, a tight, nauseating sort of pain caught him around the waist. He hoped that his dressing hadn’t bled through again. 

As he shuffled toward Jakes, Morse watched Thursday and another officer maneuver Mason Gull into the backseat of an idling van. Bright had already left—in fact, the entire glittering entourage of police vehicles was beginning to pull away. _We should hurry._

“Shall I drive?” Morse asked as he came closer.

“Sorry?” Jakes’ voice was softer than Morse had anticipated, but he didn’t bother to consider what that might mean.

“To the station,” he continued, as if it were the plainest thing in the world. He was sure that Jakes was being deliberately difficult. Morse lifted his head to glare at the sergeant, but the gesture fell embarrassingly flat. Jakes merely lifted an elegant eyebrow and took a drag from his cigarette.

“You _shan’t_. We’re not going to the station,” he told Morse, exhaling smoke as he did so. The wind bore it quickly away, along with Morse’s resolve. “Thursday’s orders, mate. I’m taking you home.”

Morse was at a loss, and it took him a moment to comprehend Jakes’ meaning. He hadn’t considered going home. But now that the option was on the table, he felt his exhaustion acutely. Suddenly, the very thought of setting foot inside the station made his heart leap painfully into his throat.

“You’re dead on your feet,” Jakes added, as if he thought that Morse might need some convincing. Morse was quiet. He knew that Jakes was right, for once, although the DS didn’t look very well either— the hand that held his cigarette shook as he brought it to his lips.

“All right,” said Morse, finally. He reached around Jakes for the door, forgetting the burst of pain that would follow. It made him gasp out loud. Jakes swore under his breath, and Morse readied himself for a telling-off.  It never came—rather, as the pain ebbed into an ache, Morse noticed that Jakes’ face had gone a shade paler.

 

 

“ _Morse_.” Jakes’ voice filtered through the fog in his brain. “Rise and shine, mate.” 

Morse opened his eyes; blinked against the hard light from the nearest streetlamp. He hardly had the energy to look around at Jakes, whose expression was caught awkwardly between irritation and concern.

“I’m going,” said Morse, struggling to find the proper words. His lips cracked as he spoke. 

Jakes made a skeptical noise. “Thursday’ll have my head if I don’t see you in.”

“He won’t know,” Morse protested.

But Jakes had already put the car in park.

 

  

Getting into his building was relatively painless. The stairs, however, would prove a bit of an obstacle. Morse winced as Jakes put a hand under his elbow. It didn’t hurt, but Morse wasn’t one for being touched; not by Jakes, at the very least. He grimaced, which Jakes presumably mistook for a look of pain. “Easy does it,” said the sergeant, haltingly.

As the pair ascended, however, Morse found that he was offering Jakes more and more of his weight. He didn’t trust himself to stay upright, and every step required immeasurable effort.

“I can’t believe the old man let you stick around,” Jakes muttered, tightening his grip on Morse’s arm.

Morse was taken aback on Thursday’s behalf. “It wasn’t this bad before,” he insisted as they reached the landing. _But it’s bad now._ He remembered Jakes’ bloodstained shirt crumpled on the floor by his bed. Would he want it back after all of this? Starched and pressed?

As Morse reached into his pocket for his keys, he swallowed a surge of nausea and looked sideways at Jakes. “I’ll pay you back for the shirt.” _That’s reasonable, isn’t it?_

Jakes opened his mouth; closed it again. Then he shrugged one shoulder with an air of nonchalance.

“Thank you. For driving,” Morse continued, his tongue heavy in his mouth.

“Thank the old man.”

Well, that was that. Morse moved to go inside and frowned bemusedly as Jakes tried to follow. “What are you doing?”

Jakes froze. “I was gonna get you settled. I thought...” He trailed off. “Are you sure you’re all right on your own?”

“I’ll manage,” said Morse. That was only partly true. He didn’t think he’d have the strength to feed himself that night. Briefly, he considered asking Jakes for help. _Well, you could stay until I get into bed. Make sure I don’t end up on the floor._

But of course he didn’t. Not Sergeant Jakes, of all people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always a slut for comments. Hated it? let me know.


End file.
